They sit at a small, tall table, their chairs high enough that their feet don’t touch the ground. They give their orders to a bored-looking waitress: Jughead asks for a pint of a beer that’s on tap, and Betty gets a gin martini. He’d been looking forward to movie snacks, and he considers suggesting that they order nachos, but something about the tension in the planes of Betty’s face makes the idea die on his tongue.
He reaches across the table and takes both of Betty’s hands in his own, giving them what he hopes is a reassuring squeeze. She’s wearing her ring, as usual. He’s come to love the feeling of the cool metal against his own hands.
“What did you want to talk about?” he asks.
“I have to tell you something.”
Jughead nods and prompts, “I’m listening.”
She licks her lips nervously. “I got a job offer.” She exhales through her nose, her breath coming out in quick, uneven bursts. “A real newspaper job, not just a gig writing about feral cats or circus school or other things that no one really reads. My own beat.”
He feels his eyes widen slightly, and he smiles at her, feeling warm with pride. “Betty, that’s amazing. Congrats.”
His smile fades and he lifts one of his hands, tucking a knuckle under her chin and raising it slightly so that she’ll meet his eyes. “We should be celebrating, baby, shouldn’t we?”
She releases another one of those shaky breaths. “It’s at the Globe.”
For a few seconds, Jughead doesn’t understand, and then, abruptly, he does. “In Boston.”
Betty nods. The waitress returns and deposits their drinks in front of them.
“I applied a couple months ago,” Betty explains. “I’ve just - I’ve felt so terrible about my job lately, I feel like I’m getting nowhere. I’ve been applying to everything I can find. I didn’t think I’d get an interview, and then, when I did get the interview… I didn’t tell you because I thought there was no way they’d actually offer it to me.”
She nods again, looking down into her martini. “They did.”
Jughead grips his glass for something to do with his hands. “You have to take it,” he manages to say after a moment of silence.
Betty lifts her head, eyes flying to his face. “Jug - ”
“No - Betty, you have to,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “You know that.”
“But - ” Her face is the picture of uncertainty, her eyes shining.
“You have to,” he says steadily, his voice still quiet.
“But Juggie,” she says, and now the shininess in her eyes is accompanied by a tightness in her throat that he can hear in her voice, “we’ve just really started to…”
He shrugs and tries to make it look casual, ignoring how his own throat constricts slightly. “Betts, you’re not the girl who gives up her career for a guy. No matter how good he is in bed,” he adds, attempting to tease. “Right?”
Her face crumples slightly, so Jughead powers on. “Boston’s not even that far. It’s what, four hours?”
In a small, miserable voice, she says, “It can be closer to five with traffic.”
“Great,” he says cavalierly, “it’ll give me time to catch up on podcasts.”
“Juggie,” she whispers. She looks so sad, so young, beneath her carefully-applied makeup, her eyes wide like she’s staring down the barrel of heartbreak.
Jughead is scared that he’ll cry if she does. He clears his throat. “This is good, Betty. I - I’m so proud of you.” When her lips press together, turning white at their seam, he lifts his glass and proposes a toast. “To you. Getting out there and kicking ass.”
Looking somewhat reluctant, she lifts her own glass and touches it lightly to his. “Thanks,” she murmurs.
— shaking landings by @anniemurphys (submitted by @bughead-bones)
